


Ticket to Ride

by PAPERSK1N



Series: Don't Let Me Down [4]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, John is insecure but what else is new, M/M, McLennon, Partying, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Still in 1964 because I'm not ready to get sad by events to follow, Tears, Yes the title is a dirty pun I’m sorry, as per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 13:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14045739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: John is feeling miserable and unloved. Paul convinces him otherwise.





	Ticket to Ride

It was rare, each of them having their own hotel room, but John supposed the other three Beatles weren’t exactly complaining about the chance to have an entire double bed to themselves rather than cramming into narrow singles like sardines- or worse: having to at least pretend to have the decency to sneak a girl in an out without effectively exiling the other from their own bed. John was surprised it had lasted as long as it did- the whole room-sharing lark- but they’d all known each other so long and so intimately now that they didn’t see much bother in sharing. Plus (for John at least) it was a comfort thing; another warm body just a few feet away from his, steady breathing keeping him anchored, reminding him that it _was_ all real, being here in America, and that he wasn’t just alone and lost in some kind of beautiful, bewitching dream.

 

(Plus, he _really_ didn’t mind sharing with Paul nor getting the chance to roll around in the sheets with him when the hotel room door locked behind them.)

 

But it was a big night, this one. After yet another sell-out _Beatle_ spectacular at the Atlantic City Convention Hall they were buzzing with energy, half thanks to the fans, half thanks to the promise of an entire day off the following morning. Brian had (in his opinion, at least) done them a solid by securing them each their own personal luxury hotel room on the top floor of the _Marquis de Lafayette Hotel_ , which none of them had ever heard of (but they’d been promised that it was pretty fucking fancy).

 

After the show it had been the usual routine- liquor flowing, Neil’s _‘magic’_ pills being passed around like sweets, leggy birds with straw-bleached hair by the fuck-load for them to parade around with well into the early hours of the morning along with their roadies and their friends and even a few of Brian’s queer American admirers until one by one, they’d slink off with their own bird of choice to the un-matrimonial bliss of an entire hotel room to desecrate without the cock-blocking atmosphere of a dear mate snoring in the next bed along.

 

All except John, of course. He’d taken one look at the whole affair and been bored out of his skull. Admittedly, he was disappointed in himself for his immediate lack of enthusiasm, but it was almost harrowing how quickly the excitement of _Beatlemania_ had begun to wear off for him. In the very beginning (and up until only a few months ago) it had been _the dream:_ a never-ending supply of alcohol, drugs and pussy. You’d have to be a clown not to enjoy having the world at your fingertips, and John remembered the way his mind had spun after that first breath on US soil, all the way back in February. They’d had the time of their fucking lives on this tour. John particularly, but it wasn’t the willing birds or the exciting new drugs or even the thankful break from little Jules’ screaming lungs and Cynthia’s disappointing glares across the dinner table that brought him such joy.

 

(It was Paul, obviously, _of-fucking-course_. John hated it, but of course, everything came down to Paul in the end, so it seemed)

 

Being on tour gave John and Paul more chances to fool around together than they’d ever had before. Nobody seemed to question when they disappeared out of a party or left the bar early because of _sudden musical inspiration_. And the more time John spent fucking around with Paul, the less it felt like a dirty, secret _lark_ between lads intended solely to keep their rollercoaster lives from getting stale and predictable. Fuck- by this point, they’d spent more time cuddled up between the sheets weeping like _birds_ about how much they _loved_ each other than they had fucking! And then, every time, Paul would leave the sacred sanctuary of whatever room they’d ended up in and dip back into that squeaky-clean public persona, waving to fans and sweet-talking journalists and having it off with pretty models and actresses in every state and city they had a chance to visit like nothing had ever happened.

 

John didn’t find it so easy to just snap back into that _Beatle John_ mold. He wasn’t even sure if that John existed anymore- the same way he couldn’t quite keep sight of _husband_ John or _Liverpool_ John or even _Daddy_ John, sometimes. With every night spent either revelling in debauchery or losing himself inside the bloke that was supposed to be his _best mate_ (but instead, in reality, was so much more than that) John moved further and further away from the man other people expected him to be. More so, he felt himself parting from the version of himself he’d been able to recognise in the mirror, and it terrified him.

 

Paul, unsurprisingly, seemed the same as ever.

 

John hadn’t been able to hold back his thick glower when he saw Paul disappear from the party with his arms wrapped around not one but _two_ busty birds, throwing a cheeky wink over his shoulder in Ringo’s direction before slipping out of the room with a callous chuckle. John knew he didn’t exactly have the right to be pissed: there was no _formal_ arrangement between him and Paul about banging other birds (not that John had been able to get a whiff of pussy in weeks, losing interest in each skinny looker quicker than he did when Cynthia phoned to tell him about her latest diet) and there certainly hadn’t been a pre-arranged agreement about them spending the night together in anticipation of their day off- but privately, John had hoped Paul would drop the façade just for a night, maybe, and ignore the canon fodder that surrounded them. Even when John managed to sweet talk him round for a night between the sheets with a few choice words and a sneaky hand trailing up his thigh under the table where nobody else could see, Paul couldn’t resist having a flirt with some skirt, even if he insisted it was just to _keep up appearances_. In truth, John knew Paul was fucking insatiable at best, and had a sexual appetite that rivalled even his- back in their leather days before he had a kid and saw what beautiful _disasters_ sex could produce. Now that they were so firmly footed at the top of the world, it seemed that Paul’s appetite could potentially be filled- because there was never not a willing bird waiting by the door, clutching her autograph book and flooding her knickers from little more than a wink or kiss. Failing that, John supposed, Paul would always have him. Even if it was just for back-up.

 

Tossing and turning in the double bed that felt far too big for just him, John started to stew, wondering why he _wasn’t_ ever the first choice. Why- on a night like this of all nights, no George and Ringo to duck past, giant private rooms and no risk of Brian’s wake-up call the following morning- why couldn’t Paul just _choose him_? John would’ve chosen Paul in a heartbeat, given half a chance. He hadn’t looked twice at any of the birds that had been wheeled in for them. He only had eyes for one person in that whole room, and unfortunately for him, that person hadn’t been looking back. That person, he thought, beginning to work himself up into a bit of an irritated state, was currently having it off with two gorgeous birds and probably wasn’t giving him much of a second thought.

 

With half a mind to wander back downstairs and try his hand at picking up some easy skirt, John sat up and fished himself a cigarette out the pack left on his bedside table. The silence in the room was almost eerie- being so used to someone else’s breathing, sexual or otherwise in their months of touring, it was harrowing, suddenly realising how alone he was. John hadn’t slept alone in what felt like years- there was always a willing body to warm his bed, be it Cyn, Paul, or a blushing stranger. Failing that, there was always _company_ at the very least- Ringo with his earth-shattering snores that they’d all pretended to hate but secretly found to be a cure for their rampant homesickness and George with his constant all-night-long fidgeting that did nothing but remind you he was still there with you- so this was the first time in forever that John had truly been alone, and he hated it.

 

John hated being alone with himself. He hadn’t been able to put it into words until that moment, but now, he finally realised. He just _hated_ being confronted by his own pathetic existence.

 

A knock at the door pulled John from his depressing thoughts, and cigarette in hand, he slipped into his robe and crept over. It was well past two in the morning by this point (not that that had stopped the party raging just down the hall in the main suite) and after working himself up into such a sad, sorry, state, John really wasn’t in the mood for Ringo or one of the roadies knocking at his door to ask for a condom. _Can I have a johnnie, Johnny?_ They thought they were so fucking hilarious sometimes. John often disagreed, although he was glad they at least bothered to use protection. The last thing they needed was (another) paternity scandal.

 

He was already glaring by the time he opened the door, but his face fell- along with the cigarette between his lips- when he saw Paul on the other side, still dressed in his _Beatle_ - _suit_ with the first few buttons open and his tie discarded, staring right at him.

 

They were locked in this frozen, Mexican stand off for a few eternity-stretching seconds until Paul’s lip curled into a smile, and he drank in every inch of John with those fucking _magical_ eyes, one hand resting against the doorframe to hold himself up and combat that barely-tipsy sway. Paul hadn’t had much to drink- but certainly more than John did- and had managed to remain pleasantly merry rather than slipping into ‘spiteful drunk’ (they’d all seen it, and it wasn’t pretty) when he’d disappeared an hour or so before.

 

“You dropped something.”

 

“Yeah.” John ducked down to pick up his cigarette (which was still alight) poking at the ash in the carpet with the toe of his slippers. There was no way any kind of soap could salvage that, and clearly someone was going to be forking out for a new carpet. Paul, hopefully. It had been his fault, anyway.

 

Paul leant forwards slightly, peering over John’s shoulder into the dark room.

 

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked. “Don’t have… company?”

 

“Wouldn’t stick my dick in any of those hired slappers for a million quid.” John huffed back, making it more than clear that he’d spent the night alone after Paul’s disappearing acts, but not moving aside to let him in the room. “Can’t say the same for everyone else.”

 

“ _John_.” Paul shot him a smirk. “Let me in, yeah?”

 

“Where’s your bird then? Sorry- _birds_?”

 

“They weren’t much fun to chat to, so I left. Went back down to see how the party was raging, that seemed boring too. So, I came here, you know, looking for you.” He looked away, a little sheepish, which took John by surprise. Paul had never been fucking sheepish in his life. He practically bled self-confidence.

 

“Looking for me?”

 

“Of course. Who else would I want to spend the night with?”

 

“Sorry if I find it hard to believe you.” John wanted to smile- wanted to gloat a little, searching desperately for that ego-stroking gut-tickling feeling that was _smugness_ , but it never came. He really wasn’t sure if he did believe Paul. For all John knew, the two girls could’ve got cold feet, and all John, once again, was nothing but his consolation prize.

 

“Don’t be like that John,” Paul sighed. “Let me come in, at least? Someone’s bound to wander into the hall in a minute and I really don’t fancy our lovers quarrel being on the front-page tomorrow morning.”

 

Finally, John took a step back, and let Paul follow him into the room, door swinging shut behind them. “Still lovers then?” he asked, and Paul let out a dry laugh in response.

 

“Well, I bloody hope so. You’re not dumping me, are you?”

 

“I didn’t realise we were together.” John sat down on the bed, reaching over to switch on the bedside lamp and light himself another cigarette, pulling up his legs and crossing them Indian-style, Paul perched at the edge looking a little bit crestfallen. He let out a tiny, barely audible _oh_ , and John exhaled smoke, looking over to him. “-don’t _bullshit_ me, Paul.”

 

“What are you talking about, John?”

 

“I’m sick of being your second choice, that’s all! You can’t just swan in here looking for a bit of cock because you struck out with two birds and couldn’t be bothered to warm up another one and then act all shocked when I have the hump.”

 

“Is _that_ what you think this is?”

 

“What else would it be?”

 

“I love ya John.” Paul said, and although it wasn’t even nearly the first time, every time John heard Paul say it the same, perfect, musical chord struck through his heart. He didn’t have Paul’s perfect ear and, so far, hadn’t been able to duplicate the note on any guitar or piano, but he was still searching. One day, at least, John hoped to be able to recreate it. Until then, he just had to wait for the next time Paul would shoot him an empty promise and do his best to listen. “There’s nobody else I’d rather be with.” He said. “I can’t help it if there’s an expectation on us to shag birds and have girlfriends and the like. If it was possible I’d…” he looked away, lifted a hand to wipe the underside of his eye, and John realised only then, that Paul was _crying_. Paul had seen him cry a thousand times- John was a blubbering wreck more days than not whether it be thanks to sadness or anger, but seeing Paul cry was a strange rarity, like spotting a white tiger in the wild. He was always so completely _composed_ , so consistent in _keeping it together_ , so it shocked John to the core every time he saw Paul shed so much as a tear. John couldn’t bear to sit by and just _watch_. He was _human_ , for fuck’s sake.

 

“-hey, look, it’s alright.” He crawled across the bed to sit beside Paul, throwing an arm around him and stroking his upper arm. Without hesitation, Paul bruised his face in the crook of John’s neck, chest hiccupping as little, silent tears escaped from his eyes, dampening the shoulder of John’s robe. “Don’t cry, babe. I’m sorry, ignore me. I’m being a prat.”

 

“You’re not.” Paul sat up, wiping his eyes furiously with the back sleeve of his jacket, giving John the biggest, wettest, puppy-dog eyes he’d ever seen. God, Paul was so unaware of the power he held. Just with that look, John would’ve ran to Australia just to fetch him a smile. It wouldn’t be a question. “I’m sorry if I make you feel like a second choice, John. To be honest at the start I thought… I thought us, y’know, it was just a _thing_. To pass the time, between birds and shows, like. Something naughty and different but… this summer, going around America- all I’ve learnt is that all the pussy in the world can’t compare to the way you make me feel.”

 

“I feel the same.”

 

“I just can’t… I can’t bear being without you, but I know that this tour isn’t going to last forever. We’re… blokes, you know? We’ll have to go back to our birds, you’ve got Jules and… I suppose I’ll marry Jane, have a kid or two of my own. I know we could spend every waking moment together and… God, there’s nothing I’d love more, Johnny. But I know if I do… it’ll just hurt more when we have to let go.”

 

“Fuck that Paul.” John shook his head, more than aware of the tears welling in his own eyes as he abandoned his cigarette in the ashtray and instead took Paul’s face between his two hands. “Forget the future. It’s all so far away… what’s the point in beating ourselves up about it, aye? Let’s just think about _now_.”

 

“I want to but… I’m scared, John. Loosing you… it terrifies me.”

 

John leant forwards, pressing his forehead against Paul’s before dropping a short, sweet kiss to his lips.

 

“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, Pud. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me- and even if all this… comes to some horrible, crashing end… well, we can just fuck off, you and me. Get a shack on some remote island and live the rest of our life by the sea, fucking all night and playing guitar.”

 

Thankfully, that brought a long-awaited smile to Paul’s lips and John felt his insides lighten up a little. God- Paul was so fucking beautiful. His worries about the likely turbulence of their future hadn’t exactly been far-fetched, but John struggled to care when he had Paul here, now, and there was nothing immediate to stop them. Knowing his luck, they’d probably fizzle out into nothing before the years end, along with the band’s success. He had a bad habit of driving the people he loved away- and Paul had put up with him longer than most. John didn’t expect they had much time left. They’d never make it to that beach-side shack, and that was okay. John knew he’d never deserve it.

 

“Would I be ruining the moment if I suggested a shag right now?” Paul asked, shifting over to sit closer to him, slim thighs pressing against John’s bare legs.

 

“Darling, I’d be quite offended if you didn’t.” He replied- and then they were kissing, John’s hands flying to Paul’s hips, pushing him back against the bed as Paul’s hands flew up to wrap around his back, pulling John into him as close as he possibly could, making them chest to chest, fingers bunching in the silk of John’s robe, legs sliding apart so that John could settle between them.

 

“You’re always my first choice.” Paul promised him as John pulled away, pressing a trail of kisses into his skin, moving from his cheek down to the side of his neck, tongue wet and probing as his fingers dipped into the buttons of Paul’s shirt, undressing him with a newfound urgency to feel him once again. “I don’t know why you doubt yourself, Johnny. As if any fucking _bird_ could make me feel like this, you’re _mad_ -”

 

“-Maybe I just like to hear you say it.”

 

“Then I’ll never stop telling you.”

 

It didn’t take long for them to get into the swing of things, the familiar touch of Paul’s skin and his lilting, pretty moans urging John further every second. He loved this, he’d _always_ love this- and no matter who would enter his life in their uncertain, unstable future, John was sure nothing could ever compare to this feeling of Paul and him, moving together. The sweat pooling at the centre of Paul’s chest was aphrodisiacal to him as it tickled his nose- lips pressing soft kisses into the space between his pink nipples, and John wanted nothing more than to grab a few tapes and make a recording of all the sounds Paul could make as John opened him up, stroking his insides and making him sing in a way he was one hundred percent certain nobody else had ever heard.

 

“Wait.” Paul held onto his face just as John withdrew his fingers, intending to replace them with his long neglected cock, but he respected Paul more than anyone he’d taken to bed, and pushed away the primal urge that screamed at him to rut forwards, holding himself back just a minute longer.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Sit back, I wanna… do something for you. Something… different.” Paul seemed oddly shy, a blush spreading across his cheek and flooding down to his chest as he laid his palm against John’s front, pushing him away slightly. John complied with his orders despite his aching cock, and sat back on the bed, letting Paul nudge him until his back was almost to the headboard, legs flat in front of him. He wasn’t sure what to expect, heart thudding in anticipation and perhaps a little fear, as if Paul was going to turn the tables and just leave him there _hanging_ , confirming John’s suspicions that their love was nothing but a one-sided farce. However, what he certainly didn’t expect was for Paul to follow him to the head of the bed, throwing a knee either side of his hips and pressing his hands into his shoulders, nudging for John to scoot down until he was laid almost flat on his back.

 

Okay, _now_ John knew what to expect. But this was a _rare_ treat- the kind of thing Cynthia saved for his birthday! No random bedded bird had ever worked up the courage to try and take control by riding him, all more than content to lie back and let him do all the work instead- yet here was Paul; beautiful, _sexy_ Paul- proving once and for all that he was easily the best piece of ass John would ever have. He couldn’t control the dark chuckle that escaped his lips as Paul reached behind to line himself up, albeit a little nervously, biting down _hard_ on the corner of his own lip.

 

“You’ll have to give me the benefit of the doubt, see. Never tried this before.”

 

“I should hope not.” John reached up to hold Paul’s hips, closing his eyes tightly as he felt the tip of his cock catch against Paul’s entrance, almost teasingly, fingers still wrapped around his shaft as Paul wriggled in his lap, looking for a decent angle.

 

It was a few clumsy seconds before he found it, not that John minded- because the moment Paul found the right position and began to sink down, he was sure he could see _stars_ behind his own eyelids. However, John forced himself to open his eyes, desperate to savour the gorgeous image that was Paul’s perfect, pale body sinking down onto his. God- it was the most perfect thing John had ever seen! _Nothing_ could possibly compare to _this_ \- no drug, no pussy- _fuck_ , John wondered if this was maybe even better than _music_! No Chuck Berry record nor Elvis had ever made him feel so alive. John doubted they ever would.

 

He tilted his hips up to move inside Paul, but a warning palm flat on his chest told him to stop. Paul’s face was the perfect picture of pain-turned-pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, head tilted back to reveal his pretty throat, a single choked moan escaping in a wheeze.

 

“Just give me a second.” Paul whispered. “Just… wow. Fucking Hell, John.”

 

“I could say the same.”

 

“I’m gonna need to take a minute-”

 

“-of course, darling. Whatever you need.”

 

“-I just want to savour this, _fuck_.” Paul blinked tightly, but managed to open his eyes, sweat soaked hair falling forwards as he lifted his head up, hanging over John. “This feeling. I wanna remember it forever.”

 

“We both will.”

 

“I would say take a picture.” Paul laughed. “But I really don’t think I could bear getting up and looking for the camera.”

 

“If you stopped now,” John bit his lip, more than aware of the way his balls were tightening, cock throbbing as it was gripped by Paul’s insides, tighter than ever before- tighter than a virgin cunt- tighter than _anything_ he’d ever felt in his life. God, wanking after this was going to be _impossible_. Anything sexual would be. Paul had effectively ruined him for anyone else. “I think my cock would come off with ya.”

 

When Paul laughed, his body rocked, giving them both the long-awaited sensation of movement. His face changed completely, laugh slipping into a loud moan that sung in perfect harmony with John’s just as it always did- and experimentally, he repeated the rocking motion with his hips, using John’s chest as an anchor.

 

“That’s it, _God_ , Paul, you’re everything.”

 

John’s breathing was growing more and more unsteady as he found himself completely helpless under Paul, having no choice but to let him do as he pleased. He quite liked it- the idea of Paul being in control when usually the bedroom was the only place he let up on being such a control-freak, but _this_ was different. This wasn’t Paul snapping at them in the studio to fix a song they’d run through eight times. This was Paul at his most _divine_ , hips rocking in a steady rhythm, riding John with elegance and electricity, falling forwards onto his elbows so that his front was pressed into John’s front, face close enough to kiss John’s face, but mouth too distracted by moans to even bother trying. John could feel the sweat at the tips of his dark hair dripping onto his forehead, and usually, it would be disgusting, but there was _nothing_ disgusting about this. There was nothing disgusting about _them_ \- despite what certain people might’ve thought. John was sure that all the homophobes in the world needed was a good shag like this, right up the ‘arris, and they’d change their bloody tunes. He certainly had.

 

“Fuck me John, please.” Paul whined, shaking as he tried to hold his body up, chest heaving. “Please, I’ll go crazy if you don’t.”

 

John certainly didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He gripped Paul’s hips in a bruising grip and gave, admittedly, the most passionate performance of his fucking life- hips snapping up into Paul’s repeatedly as he bounced him up and down on his cock, chasing his release as Paul’s loud moans cheered him on. Fuck, anyone walking past his room probably _would_ think he was fucking a bird if they didn’t hang around too long- there were sounds escaping Paul’s mouth that even _he_ didn’t recognise, this new angle lighting him up in ways they had never before thought possible. John admired him in every single way. This was more than an apology. This was Paul _proving_ that when he said he loved John, he wasn’t lying. He was giving his all- giving his _everything_ \- opening himself up to John in ways he’d never dared with anyone else. Hopefully, he never would. Paul rode him to completion, and John was sodden with sweat by the time he finally came, filling Paul and grabbing onto his backside hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises in his wake, and with a frantic hand creeping between them, desperate for release, Paul wasn’t far behind him, spilling all over John’s stomach and his chest- _fuck_ , there was even some on his _face_ \- he’d never seen Paul come like this.

 

Shaking, Paul fell against him, hardly registering John’s cock, still softening inside him. He didn’t say anything at all, just _breathed_ , hot and fast against John’s neck. A small moan slipped from his lips as John’s hands came to stroke against his skin languidly, creeping up from his butt to his back, then to his neck, and then all the way back down the curve of his spine again as they came down from their high together, words inessential.

 

It was almost a full minute until Paul wriggled against him, a little uncomfortable, and John pulled out. Paul didn’t stray far from him for long, however, and curled into John’s side, limp and sweating. John lifted his arm for Paul to duck underneath, and stroked his hair gently.

 

“You okay?”

 

“I don’t really know,” Paul let out a shaky laugh. “My whole body feels like… I don’t know. _Boneless_. Tingly, even. I’ve never come that hard in my life, John.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ve ruined sex for me forever now. Nothing is ever going to compare to that.”

 

“I need a _fag_.”

 

“On your right.”

 

“Thanks- _fuck_ , my back.” Paul winced as he tried to sit up before flopping back down, instead reaching blindly for the cigarettes and John’s book of matches. He lit two in his mouth, handing one over to John, who accepted it with a grateful hum, nicotine rush making his body tingle all the way down to his toes. “Thank God we have the day off tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll give you a massage, if ya like.”

 

“Not bloody likely.” Paul laughed. “I know what kind of _massage_ you’re thinking of, John, and it involves my arse getting poked with your _cock_ , _again,_ so no thanks.” He reached between them, giving John’s package a light squeeze, but in his current condition- after coming with such a violent force he wondered if his dick would ever be in working order _again_ \- John winced.

 

“Ouch- easy. Alright. I promise, no poking. I’ll _buy_ ya a massage, how about that? Pretty sure this hotel has a spa. We’ll both have a massage- your back and my cock.”

 

“Any beauty-therapist bird is gonna have to fight me off with her nimble fingers to get a chance near your cock, especially if we really are doing this whole living in the _now_ thing.”

 

“Alright, alright.”

 

“I’m serious, John.” Paul turned over so he was laid on his front, chest to chest with John, taking another drag of his cigarette before holding it away so that the ash wouldn’t fall onto the white sheets. “I wont fuck around without talking to you first. You were right, any chance we have to be together we should take. Fuck the future.”

 

“Fuck the future.” John smiled back, one thumb swiping over one of Paul’s perfect eyebrows, in complete awe of his lovely face, as he was always. “I’d rather have you here.”


End file.
